


Duality of Witchers

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Background Relationships, Dialogue Heavy, Fairy Tale Curses, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Kissing, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Jaskier made a deal with a witch in exchange for eternal youth. He didn’t mind paying the price at the time, but if he ever wants to break the curse he must find “true love”. In other words, someone who loves him for the person he is. He’ll never want to undo such a gift, so it really doesn’t bother him that the curse goes unbroken for decades. No, it doesn’t bother him at all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 73
Kudos: 226
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #016





	Duality of Witchers

**Author's Note:**

> This tale is told from Jaskier's point of view and is quite dialogue-heavy. He has a name change a few paragraphs in and then has a little identity crisis as things develop with Lambert. It's a story about finding genuine love in unlikely places; in this case, the author proposes that genuine ("true") love is finding someone who can love the whole of you, not just the nice bits.

Jaskier walked down the cracked pathway flanked by beds of begonias with little idea what he would find at the end. He didn’t expect a small, dilapidated cottage with flaking walls, and the shutters were thrown open to free the scent of freshly baked pie. His stomach gave a rumble, and he reasoned that it wasn’t _too rude_ to ask for both a curse _and_ a slice of pie at the same time.

He glanced down at the spindly plants with their redbuds and recalled a vague memory of symbolism. The florist had been rather determined to educate him on the appropriate blooms to include in a bouquet, her voice becoming increasingly more ragged as he worked between her thighs, her dress bunched up around her waist. The mattress had been hard and lumpy, but the encounter itself was worth it. He smirked. If all went well today, there would be many more young, supine florists in his future.

As he approached the door, the turquoise paint flaking from dark wood, it opened before he could lift a hand to knock. “Julian Pankratz,” the woman said, and Jaskier took a moment to appraise her features. She was quite plain—perhaps comely if he was pushed—but her green eyes flashed with sharp intelligence. Her dress was simple, with a beige apron tied around her waist, and her sandy hair was scraped back in a tight bun. It leant a pinched, impatient look to her features.

“Jaskier,” the bard offered, sweeping his feathered bonnet from his head and offering a low bow. She was unimpressed and rolled her eyes as she stepped aside. “Why thank you, my dear. Such a lovely abode you maintain here. Very,” he glanced around at the simple, ageing furniture, “humble.”

“Save your flattery,” she said airily, “I know why you’re here.”

“Yes,” Jaskier nodded, “and how _do_ you know that, if I may ask? I would remember encountering a woman of your remarkable beauty, I—.”

“Do you remember the name of that _beauty_ who tried to teach you the symbolism of the flowers in my garden?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, narrowed his eyes, and then took the smart decision to remain silent.

“I thought not.” She took a seat at a small table in the centre of the one-roomed cottage and indicated the plain chair opposite. Jaskier took a seat, lowering his lute from his back, and placed his hands together. She continued. “You have heard that I can provide eternal youth, and yet, unlike the rest of your kin who possess an iota of common sense, you have decided to come and ask for it.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said proudly, “and I have thought of all the things you could possibly ask for, and I am willing to pay any price.”

“Even your penis?”

Jaskier paled. The witch laughed. “Hm. Fear not, young troubadour, I have no use for your genitalia.” She studied him closely, her head tilted to the side. Jaskier sat casually, belying his thundering heart, and clasped his hands around his knee. He knew what he wanted; eternal youth. The face he wore now should exist for all his days; the women, the fame, the fortune. It would pour upon him and he would bask in it until his final breath. Oh, to think—

“Fine,” she said, rising from her seat, “I will grant your wish, Julian Pankratz. My price is your fertility.”

“My fertility?” he blustered.

“Yes. You shall never provide a woman with viable seed. Your ancestral line ends with you.”

“Done,” Jaskier replied, his grin splitting his face in half, “are you sure this is a _price_ , witch? I feel you’re pouring gifts upon me this eve.” Endless sex without wailing consequence. 

“Very well. Sit here. Don’t touch anything.”

Jaskier eyed the pie cooling on the windowsill.

“ _Anything_ ,” she warned, and he nodded dejectedly.

The witch walked around the side of the table, plucked a clump of his russet hair—the damn woman didn’t even warn him, the wretch—and then headed to her work table. Jaskier listened to her grind herbs, and mumble incantations. Witchy things. She picked a silver medallion from a drawer and opened the small locket. She wrapped his lock of hair in begonia petals and placed them within the frame, her fingers waving over the top until they melted into the metal.

When she returned, Jaskier saw a picture of young, vibrant flowers inside. She placed the locket in his palm, and then a cup of something sweet-smelling on the table. “The begonias symbolise your youth,” she said, “when you drink this elixir, and I finish my incantation, they will freeze in time. You will have your _eternal youth_ , Julian Pankratz."

“Oh, fantastic, let’s crack on then.” Jaskier scooped up the cup, but she placed her palm over the top. He scowled at her impatiently.

“This is a curse. Not a gift,” she said, her head tilting to the side. “You are rude and arrogant; a womaniser and a cheat. You _love_ , but it is shallow, meaningless and fleeting, as is the love you receive in return. They love the frippery, the humour and the songs you write about them. But they do not love you.”

“Now, see here—.”

She snapped her fingers and Jaskier’s mouth slammed shut. For a horrifying, startling moment, he thought he couldn’t breathe.

“To break this curse,” she continued, “someone—a single person—must love you in return for exactly who you are. Until then, you will live, eternally young.” Her fingers spread and Jaskier was allowed to speak again.

“So, true love's first kiss. How very quaint. You know,” he knocked back the drink in one, grimacing at the sweet-sour taste of it, “it’s the thirteenth century. Polyamory is a thing. You need to update your values, my dear. And silver? Terribly gauche.”

She rolled her eyes as she sat down in her chair opposite. Jaskier looked at the locket in his palm, his vision beginning to swim, and the flowers began to change. They hardened with frost like father winter has breathed over their petals and frozen them in time. His vision darkened at the edges and his limbs grew weak. _Had she poisoned him?_

A pair of green eyes watched him as he fell unconscious.

When he woke, the cottage was derelict. It was like nobody had lived there for decades. The furniture was rotten, the windows and door gone. The garden was barren and dead. He might have thought it was all a dream, that he had wandered into the forest in a drunken stupor, but there was a slice of perfectly baked pie in the middle of the table.

Well, it would be rude to leave it.

* * *

The years went by and the witch was true to her word. Every time Jaskier looked in the mirror, his visage had not changed. Not a single wrinkle or grey hair; no sunspots or peeking veins. Jaskier did not age a single day. Nor did he father a single bastard—not through lack of trying. He sang, danced and _feasted_ his way around the Continent. He sampled every delicacy—from the ruddy-cheeked farmhand, coy and ignorant of his desires, to the wide-hipped baker’s daughter who squeaked and giggled as he teased her.

His work flourished too. He finished his Oxenfurt education and the faculty invited him as a guest lecturer now and then. As the decades went by and his face remained unchanged, some began to ask questions. They were good-natured at first, but soon the more occult began to take an interest. Jaskier was forced to stage his death. A terrible accident—a fire. His house burned down to ashes. There was no body to bury.

Oxenfurt mourned their greatest star, and then it moved on. Jaskier was a little offended that no one visited his grave. He watched it for an entire year and not a single soul came to lay flowers or express their condolences. The witch’s words echoed in his mind from all those decades before—the frippery, the humour and the songs, but not you. His admirers had found another source for what they wanted. The meaning of eternity felt a little heavier in those first few months. He buried it.

Three years later, a young, fresh-faced youth turned up at the doors of Oxenfurt for his education. Jaskier’s son. He had the documents to prove it. _Dandelion_ was his stage name. Rather than make the same mistake twice, _Dandelion_ stayed at Oxenfurt long enough to establish himself as a fine musician and poet, and then hit the road. It wasn’t the life he was used to. He lost his titles, his wealth; his family would not acknowledge the bastard child of their wayward son. He was penniless. Dandelion left Oxenfurt with a singular value; his talent and renown.

It was no real hardship. He loved travelling. Travel meant adventure and sex. Adventure and sex meant song. In fact, it was the marrying of his three biggest loves—music, sex and adventure—that placed him in the path of one white-haired Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.

They met in Gulet, a sorry little town in southern Aedirn, at a fête. He was hiding behind the Witcher’s horse at the time, hiding from four sturdy men threatening to geld him. Apparently, he’d knocked up their sister under the musician’s podium. It couldn’t _possibly_ have been him. He was _infertile_ —gods dammit. But pointing out that perhaps the lovely Felicity had indulged in more than one prick that day was apparently _not_ the truth they wanted to hear.

The Witcher took pity on him. Perhaps it was his honesty. _Yes_ , I slept with the woman—she was so very eager and loved my work, you see, Witcher— _no,_ I did not impregnate her. Dandelion had heard tell of Witchers—bestial, smelly and sexually insatiable—but this one gazed at him with wry amusement and a raised eyebrow. Dandelion took his chances. They made their escape together and ended up at the End of the World. A likely place to lay low.

It was here they had their first adventure together. An encounter with a _nasty_ Sylvan and the inhabitants of Dol Blathanna’s exiled elven population. Despite his many decades, Dandelion had absorbed the propaganda and the tales of his civilisation—the elves chose to be here, they had golden towers, they were comfortable—and was rather horrified by what he found instead. 

He learned a lot about his new companion too. He was kind and wise. A monster that preferred to use his words over his swords. _Not a monster._ A man. With a soft heart, a sardonic sense of humour and tired, golden eyes.

Dandelion left with a new perspective, a new lute—oh, beautiful Tourviel, sweet, sweet Tourviel—and a new purpose. He would follow Geralt to the other end of the world, he would make sure that no one thought of witchers as beasts and he would forge himself a new life in the wilderness.

He meets with—loves and laughs with—hundreds of people through the years. He tells himself it doesn’t bother him. Why would it? He has everything he has ever wanted.

* * *

“You never age.”

“What?” Dandelion looked up the fire, lips pressed together.

“We’ve been travelling together for ten years,” Geralt poked the large, rat-like creature he had secured for their evening meal. “But I have more lines on my face than you do.”

“You need a better skincare routine, my dear.”

“Your locket made my medallion vibrate when I touched it.”

Dandelion twanged his lute strings in surprise, and they both flinched. “Foraging through a man’s underwear, Geralt, whatever next.”

“Dandelion.”

“Geralt.”

“Don’t misdirect,” the witcher said, rubbing at his eyes. It had been a difficult season. “Why do you not age? Is it the locket?”

“I’m not a monster.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“And I’ve never hurt anyone,” Dandelion said quickly, his heart racing. “Well, _emotionally_ , perhaps. But what is life without love and loss, Geralt? What is—?”

“ _Dandelion._ ”

“Yes, right, well—.”

“Don’t fret, dear friend, you have nothing to fear from me.” Geralt placed his temporary cooking implement—a short gnarled stick—in the fire. “But I need to know. Magic is a fickle thing. Sometimes it doesn’t like to mix, sometimes it reacts in unfamiliar ways. You know all this. We’ve travelled together long enough.”

“I didn’t mean to keep anything from you,” Dandelion croaked, placing his lute aside. “I have just run afoul of it before. I once lived by a different name. Had a different life.”

“Tell me.”

“And you promise not to chase me into the forest? Skewer me on the end of your silver blade there?”

“Gods dammit, Dandelion. I will chase you into the forest if you don’t start your tale. Hurry, preferably before the food gets cold and certainly before my hair gets any whiter.”

“Alright, alright.”

Dandelion—Jaskier—took a deep breath and then told Geralt his story. He had never told another soul. Of course, it existed in the annals inside Oxenfurt library, but those adventures were attributed to another. Geralt listened patiently, pausing Dandelion only long enough to dice the food up into their rations tins. 

When Dandelion was finished, Geralt hummed. “True love.”

“Yes,” the troubadour rolled his eyes. “I did point it out at the time. To base a man’s life, his very existence, on something as erroneous and _mythical_ as true love. Finding _the one._ Such drivel.”

“You sing about love all the time.”

“Yes, _love,_ ” Dandelion said, licking the grease from his fingers, “but _true_ love? What tosh. It’s the kind of thing wet nurses tell their noble charges to encourage monogamy. The fairytale of the established order of things.”

Geralt smiled. Some might call it an ugly thing, his pinched features somewhat starved by hardship, but Dandelion always found it rather lovely. “But you’re otherwise unharmed?”

“Unharmed, a picture of health,” Dandelion confirmed, tapping the body of his lute. “I haven’t fathered a single bastard, but I count that as a boon.”

“Of course you do.” Geralt mopped his hands and then rested on his back, golden eyes turned to the stars. “I am glad, Dandelion.”

“Glad?”

“That you’re not in danger.”

“Well, yes, who else would tolerate your appalling culinary skills? That rat was charred, but uncooked in the middle. Disastrous. Zero out of ten.”

“Beggars and choosers, bard. Beggars and choosers.”

Dandelion smiled, placed his lute aside, and watched the stars with Geralt. Perhaps it didn’t count as _true_ love—singular and _eternal_ —but he was content with the love he shared with Geralt. Who could want for anything more? That winter, he would visit Kaer Morhen and meet the rest of Geralt’s family.

* * *

“You’re incorrigible.” Dandelion scowled, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Honesty is only unwelcome when it’s painful, eh, bard?” Lambert sneered right back. “Bet it’s hard living such a pretty, meaningless existence.”

“I suppose you’d be perfectly content with a bawdy Skelliger shanty,” Dandelion said dryly, neatly side-stepping Lambert’s other baited hook. 

“Genuine, witty and full of substance,” Lambert gulped back another mouthful of ale, “complete opposite of the tawdry nonsense you’ve had us listening to all winter.”

“You wouldn’t know a good tune if it came and flicked that hooked nose of yours.”

Eskel and Geralt exchanged a glance. They sat there like statues, shoulders squared, hands tight around the tankards, with their ears pulled back and amber eyes wide like deer caught in a predator’s gaze.

Lambert leaned on his elbow. “Seems I’ve hit a nerve,” he smiled, but it was all teeth and no humour, “perhaps you’d accept feedback from a prettier face. Geralt? Care to offer a word or two?”

“It’s a trap,” Eskel said, and Geralt nodded in agreement. If Geralt agreed with Dandelion, he earned Lambert’s ire for the entire winter, and if he agreed with Lambert, he would endure Dandelion's flouncing and huffing. What he didn’t realise was that by _staying_ _silent_ —neutral, if you will—he was dealt an even worse hand.

“Traitorous cretin,” Dandelion whispered, eyes narrowed, and then left with his lute in hand.

“Coward,” Lambert sneered, necking the rest of his ale, before heading off with a raised middle finger.

Geralt turned to Eskel, who raised both his hands. “Don’t blame me.” 

They sighed in unison. 

Eskel took Lambert. Geralt took Dandelion.

“It’s his way,” Geralt said later, sitting on the edge of Dandelion’s cot. “He’s like it with everyone.”

“Yes, well, just because something is _established_ doesn’t mean it should be _accepted._ His manners are abhorrent, his temper as ugly as his countenance; he’s rude, arrogant. What are you smiling at?”

“You like him.”

“I most certainly _do not._ ”

“You never let negative feedback get under your skin. You brush those that unduly criticise you off as talentless, tasteless wastrels and move on.” 

“Ah-ha! So you admit that his criticism was baseless,” Dandelion exclaimed, brandishing a finger in Geralt’s direction. “He sits there like the paragon of music. As if he’s the final judgement, the ultimate authority, and yet what does he know of music? Of literature? Of love or friendship? Of anything other than the two swords on his back and the names in his bestiary—oh, Geralt. I didn’t—.”

“It’s fine, Dandelion.”

“No, it’s not, dear friend.” Dandelion sat on the bed at Geralt’s side. “I didn’t mean to bring such poisonous words and feelings into your home. You hear them enough on the Path, you don’t need them here too.”

Geralt sighed. “Lambert has many badly healed wounds beneath the surface. He’s always been this way. If he treated you any differently, I would be concerned.”

“I have noticed he speaks to you, Eskel and Vesemir with the same impertinence,” Dandelion nodded, “I was aghast when he spoke of Eskel’s scars in such a callous manner. It felt truly heartless.”

“It normalises them. If Lambert were to make an exception, Eskel would see them as truly monstrous. So bad, that they’re beyond even the realms of Lambert’s sharp tongue.”

“I see.”

“Lambert teases to show affection; he is blunt and coarse, but he’s a good man,” Geralt paused, tilting his head, lips pursed. “Deep, deep—deep down. But he would be there for me—for any of us—without hesitation. Lay his life down if it meant that we could live. You say he is heartless, but I contend that he’s all heart. Just a badly scarred one.”

Dandelion sighed now, resigned. “I suppose I can give him the benefit of the doubt,” his eyes narrowed, “but I shall treat him in kind.”

Geralt grinned. “He’ll be pleased with that. Just be yourself.”

The rest of the winter progressed as expected. Lambert stepped up his bitchiness to meet Dandelion’s challenge, but it was tempered with good humour when well-lubricated with alcohol. Dandelion played Lambert some bawdy Skelliger shanties and was delighted when the witcher brayed along with them, deliberately off-key and raucous. 

The insults still came thick and fast, on one memorable occasion when Lambert walked by with an airily thrown, “fuck off, bard,” for no discernible reason other than the colour of Dandelion’s doublet. Blue didn’t suit him apparently.

As Dandelion departed in the spring, Lambert grasped his forearm as he had done with both his brothers and mentor. “Bring some better songs next winter.”

“Only if you bring some better stories.”

Lambert smirked, shouldered his bag and swords, and walked ahead down a different path.

* * *

When years are limitless, they become meaningless, and when they become meaningless, it’s easy for them to escape unnoticed. Dandelion marked the passage of his existence in other ways. With adventures and pretty faces. There was the summer of Justine, a beautiful young noblewoman he seduced and made love to in the apple orchard of her father’s estate. The winter of the Sad Noonwraith. A young girl that had been murdered by her stepmother in a fit of jealous rage. 

Names, faces and adventures.

Then there was the autumn of Yennefer of Vengerburg.

And suddenly, Dandelion had another way to mark time. The trials and tribulations of Yennefer and Geralt. A story of broken mason jars and tear-streaked cheeks; of cruel words said in pain and hasty love on furs under the stars. It was romantic in the most tragic sense, and Dandelion recorded it all diligently in his memoirs. Every reunion, every heartbreak. It wove through the tapestry of Geralt’s life now and filled the pages of Dandelion’s journals.

He spent less time with Geralt and found that he missed him. When they met up again, Geralt usually came with a story of yet another turbulent split with his lady love. Dandelion listened, allowed Geralt to air his frustrations and gave legitimacy to them. Geralt always believed himself to be wrong, and Dandelion wondered, sometimes openly, whether this was Yennefer’s fault.

It didn’t matter. Geralt always went back. And suddenly Dandelion’s life felt a lot... emptier.

“Do you think it’s true love, Geralt?” asked Dandelion one night.

“She’s the only one for me,” Geralt replied, his smile both rueful and self-deprecating. “I think that’s as true as it comes.”

Dandelion hummed at the starry sky and strummed at his lute.

* * *

“He’s a doormat,” Lambert said as he promptly destroyed Dandelion’s archers. _Well, bugger it._ “He always has been. Sticks his nose into other people’s business, despite saying he’s neutral. An absolute bleeding heart.”

Dandelion had left Geralt south of Vizima to attend a conference—he didn’t usually bother, but they were discussing _Jaskier’s_ work and he really couldn’t resist—and had stumbled across Lambert in one of the grottier drinking establishments. They had spent three winters together now—drinking, bitching and growing to enjoy each other’s presence—and a familiar face was always a welcome sight. Not to mention that Dandelion could rest his mask down in Lambert’s presence; no airs and graces necessary. Having just spent two weeks singing in a noble’s court, it was sweet relief.

“I disagree. Geralt is a good man. He tries to adhere to the Witcher’s code while following his heart. While trying to do the right thing.”

“Duality of a witcher.” 

“What?” Dandelion looked up suddenly, lips turned up in amusement.

Lambert paused mid-card play and heaved a sigh. “To be truly neutral, sometimes you have to get involved,” he paused for another drink, “sometimes, doing nothing means one side will win over another and upset the balance of things. Sometimes you have to adhere to your own moral code and define what neutral actually means to yourself. If I walk by a robbing on the highway when I could prevent it, am I not just helping the bandit over the merchantman? Does neutrality truly exist? Inaction is just another choice you’ve made. A side you’ve chosen.”

“Bad triumphs over good.”

“There’s no such thing as bad or good,” Lambert snorted. “Absolute good and evil, that’s arbitrary thinking. One man’s evil is another man’s bid to survive.”

“Like the scoia’tael terrorists you drink with?”

Lambert narrowed his eyes but said nothing. 

Dandelion pressed. “I’m intrigued. The only other time I’ve heard that phrase is—.”

“Duality of man,” Lambert filled in, slamming down his final play and whisking Dandelion’s cards from the table. “I know. Your daddy wrote about it.”

“You read m—Jaskier’s book?” Dandelion blustered, trying his utmost not to make it sound like a shocked _‘you can read?’_ between the lines.

He was unsuccessful. Lambert scowled and folded his arms. “I might have.”

“And? What did you think?”

“Seven whole liberal arts and he chose poetry over science. Moron.”

“Beauty over practicality. Not moronic; idealistic, perhaps.”

“No one’s life was ever made better by a s—.” He cut himself off because he’d fallen right into a trap he’d damn well laid himself. Dandelion beamed and the phantom of ‘toss a coin to your witcher’ floated through both their heads.

Dandelion had become rather skilled at navigating Lambert’s temper. He sensed it was safer to redirect a little than push. “He also wrote a lot about love. What did you think?”

“Didn’t read it. Not my thing.”

“Poetry?”

“Love.”

“Why not?”

“Why’s a nekker munch on a corpse? That’s in their nature. Why doesn’t it pick flowers? Because that’s _not._ ”

“And love… _isn’t_ in your nature,” Dandelion stated; more a query, really. He was often certain that he missed fifty per cent of conversations with Lambert because the other part continued in Lambert’s head. The man thought himself around in circles and covered entire thematic disciplines in a handful of minutes. 

“Bard,” Lambert slapped his hands on the table, “how do you feel about buggery?” 

Dandelion blinked, glanced over his shoulder to check that no one’s ears had pricked at the opportunity of a good public hanging. He leaned in a little closer. “ _What?_ ” Always best to check.

“Two men, an ass and a prick, maybe two pricks if the first isn’t your thing, though I’m angling that it might be based on your choice of tones this evening,” Lambert said, examining Dandelion’s purple doublet and hose pointedly. “The offer disappears in thirty seconds.” 

“Well—.”

“Twenty seconds.”

“I mean.”

“Fifteen.”

“Alright, alright!” 

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“It was thirty seconds, twenty seconds ago.”

“Twenty minutes,” Lambert insisted and then left the table to get them a room.

When Dandelion stumbled into the small _cupboard_ that passed as accommodation in this hole of a tavern, he found Lambert clean and mostly naked. His slicked back hair was ruffled and fresh, his impressive physique, with its network of scars, washed down to its natural bronze. “Well,” Dandelion smirked, placing his lute and hat on a hook as he kicked the door closed behind him. “Connoisseur of fine literature, a considerate lover.”

Lambert turned, arms spread. “I’m a regular fucking gentleman.” 

Dandelion yelped as the Witcher scooped him up, one strong arm cradled his torso while the other encouraged Dandelion’s legs to wrap his waist. They didn’t make it to the bed for the first time. While Dandelion mumbled into Lambert’s mouth that it was really best that _he_ undid all the intricate ties and hooks of his clothing, Lambert just smirked and worked his way through them with a practisedhand. 

Dandelion had hoped his first experience of a Witcher’s prick would be in one of the fur-filled cots of Kaer Morhen. He certainly hadn’t predicted Lambert (potentially Eskel—more likely than Geralt at this stage), but the whole tryst was so mind-blowing—Dandelion’s back pressed into the wall, his body held as if it weighed no more than a cumbersome satchel of supplies—that he didn’t have the awareness to reflect on the lack of romance.

Lambert’s hunger and enthusiasm made up for the lack of backdrop. Substance over style had never felt so good.

Lambert’s kisses were fierce and deep. His touch was thorough, his prick _magnificent._ He growled, and moaned, and swore. Their coupling was raw, frantic and passionate. Dandelion scratched down Lambert’s back, stifled his moans against his shoulder. And _it happened four times before Lambert was finished._

Dandelion fell asleep cushioned on Lambert’s bicep, watching the Witcher mock him while wearing his bonnet. “You wear it better than I,” were Dandelion’s last words before his eyes closed.

In the morning, Lambert was gone. Dandelion had _never_ been left. He’d always done the leaving. 

There was a note: ‘all paid up bard, thanks for the fuck’.

He had never been so disappointed to be alone in his long life. 

* * *

Cintra fell. Geralt collected Ciri.

Dandelion followed them up the mountain, ever the faithful troubadour. Geralt was currently _without_ Yennefer, which meant he needed all the moral support he could get. On the first night, Ciri drank some White Gull and fell into a trance. It wasn’t the last time nor the most terrifying. 

The Witchers spent months training with her. The little princess was sharp, clever and forceful. The Witchers were smitten. None more so than Lambert, who taught her to skip stones and wield a knife, swear in Skelliger and mix a small bomb. He teased her relentlessly and she responded with incredulous mirth. But the trances and nightmares didn’t cease. In the end, the witchers of Kaer Morhen were forced to call in support.

_Triss Merigold._

While Geralt was pleased to see her, gently pushing away her advances, as were Vesemir, Eskel and their guest Coen—lovely fellow, charming with Ciri—Lambert could barely contain his disdain. Lambert's barbs at _Merigold_ (for he refused to use her first name at first) were sharper than the others he levied at his family. Edged in ice and distrust. He refused to see the truth before his very eyes. That Ciri was a Source and needed more guidance than the Witchers could provide.

Dandelion found him brushing the horses after Triss shamed the lot of them by revealing the arrival of Ciri’s monthly cycle. She had hidden it from her male custodians out of embarrassment. “If you brush him any longer, he won’t have a coat left,” Dandelion said in jest, stroking Pegasus’ soft nose. 

“What do you want?”

“Fine music. Fine wine. Fine,” he tilted his head to run an appraising eye over Lambert, “company.”

“Best head inside then. Nothing out here but foolish Witchers and horses.” Lambert sneered. Dandelion knew him well enough to hear the trace of something else beneath his dismissive snort.

“You let her get under your skin.”

The brush rattled in a bucket as Lambert threw it down aggressively. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She belittled you, made you feel stupid, look, Lambert, I understand, I—.”

“You don’t understand shit,” Lambert seethed, appearing around Pegasus’ head. Eskel had warned Dandelion that he was placing himself in the path of Lambert’s anger, but he wasn’t prepared for the unadulterated rage on his face. “People like her are just like that—sorcerers. She looks down her nose at the ants on the floor and feels nothing about crushing them under her heel. She may have convinced the others that she won’t whisk Ciri away to the mercies of the Chapter, but her word means less than a poet’s fidelity.”

“Hmm,” Dandelion glared right back. It was a low blow but deserved. “She’s helping, isn’t she?”

“She can help and still be a scheming, manipulative piece of shit.”

“Duality of sorceresses?”

“Fuck off, bard.”

“I know what this is.”

“Really? What is it?”

“It’s love.”

“For _Merigold?_ ” Lambert barked a bitter, scathing laugh. “Left your marbles in Oxenfurt this year, clearly.”

“Oh, not for Triss,” Dandelion waved a hand. “For Ciri. The young princess has been here all of a few months. You train her, feed her, and clothe her, but you also tease her and play with her. You all do, of course. But you speak to her as an equal, whereas the others speak to her like a child.”

Lambert pressed his lips closed.

Dandelion continued. “You train her hard to protect her from the world because you know how cruel it can be, and now someone has arrived who, in your mind, could hurt her despite your best efforts.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You say she is just a normal girl—an orphan of war—because you know that if she is anything else, anything more, then her life will never be her own. That great danger lays ahead of her. You care for Ciri. Like a daughter, even if you can only love her from afar.”

Without warning, Lambert seized Dandelion’s doublet and forced him into the wall. The bard grunted but didn’t drop his gaze. “Don’t try to read me like you read Geralt. I’m not him. You don’t need to soothe my ego, bard. I’m not some bleeding heart. Not going to whine about destiny or how unfair it all is, there’s no such thing,” he snarled, but Dandelion’s own temper remained even, and the lack of response gave Lambert pause. His grip loosened in that silken doublet. “Bad shit just happens. It just _happens._ ”

“But we can’t help but ask: why must it always happen to us?” 

Lambert examined him closely and Dandelion would give anything to know what was going on behind those furious eyes. Still, instead of saying anything further, the witcher turned away and began tidying the stable. Dandelion petted Pegasus and then they walked back to the castle where they drank, played cards and ended up wrapped in Lambert’s cot. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow, Eskel covered his head with a pillow, but Lambert didn’t seem to notice them and Dandelion only had eyes for his lover. He wound his hands through his hair and kissed the scars on his face, wrapping his legs tightly around his waist. It was slower than last time, their bodies moving together with slow, easy passion, and Dandelion got the impression that Lambert was seeking comfort rather than just a warm body in which to slake his lust. 

Dandelion woke alone again, but this time there was a plate of food and a tankard of water waiting for him. The Witchers were in the training yard and Ciri was sewing with Triss. 

It was far from the last time Dandelion warmed Lambert’s cot that winter. Lambert’s temper calmed a little. He was at his finest when he was training Ciri and entertaining the full complement of guests at Kaer Morhen in the evenings. As Dandelion watched him fondly, he felt a Lambert-shaped imprint form on his heart.

* * *

“What’re you _doing_ here?” Dandelion hissed in an alcove.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Lambert spat back.

“You first.”

“Contract.”

“A contract? Really? And here I thought you might be a member of the _band._ Look, the halls have ears, and eyes, and… quite a few wandering hands, if I’m honest. Outside.”

They stepped into the fresh air and Dandelion pulled Lambert into the hedge maze. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Witcher pressed a hand over his lips and listened intently to something only he could hear. It was in this moment of tense silence that Dandelion finally realised what Lambert was wearing. A very stylish, black silk doublet with matching hose, sturdy leather boots. His hair was neatly combed and his beard recently groomed. Oh, and he _smelled_ amazing. 

When it was safe, he finally pulled his palm away. “Bit far south. Not safe. It’s wartime,” Lambert’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, well,” Dandelion dropped his voice a little lower, until he spoke in breathy whispers, “I’m collecting intelligence from this particular nobleman.”

“You’re a spy,” Lambert guffawed, and Dandelion smothered his mouth with both hands. Those lovely lips _definitely_ turned into a pout beneath his fingers, but Lambert’s eyes just glowered.

“Of sorts. Now, you, what’re you hunting?”

“A succubus with a glamour.”

“Geralt says they’re intelligent. He doesn’t kill intelligent creatures.”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “This one’s intelligent, alright. She also loves sucking a man’s soul out through his prick. Slurps it up and leaves them for dead.”

“I thought killing the victim was—.”

“Counterproductive. Draws attention. Usually only happens when a succubus is sadistic.”

“Right,” Dandelion paused. “So, what do we do?” 

“ _We_ do nothing. Just keep your pants on tonight.”

“Nonsense, I hunt with Geralt all the time.”

Lambert considered Dandelion closely, and the bard was ready to resign himself to spectating. Geralt _didn’t_ let him hunt. In fact, he only ever got involved _by accident_ **.** Just as he began to turn towards the exit of the maze, Lambert reached a decision. “Fine. You’re good bait.”

“What?” Dandelion’s eyes lit up.

“Bait, you sleep around; young, virile.” Lambert squinted at Dandelion as if realising something for the first time, but said nothing more on it.

“Excellent. What do I do?”

“Be your usual whore self.”

“Charming.”

“I never said that was a bad thing.”

“You _implied_ it.”

“Bard. I don’t _imply_ , I say what I mean. You sleep around. You’re easy. Not passing judgement, but it makes you good bait for a succubus.”

“Coming from you! I know what Witchers are like, why, Geralt spends—.”

“Not all Witchers.”

“What?”

“Not all Witchers,” Lambert repeated, but his gaze had drifted; he’d caught sight or smell of something that interested him.

“You _don’t_ enjoy the company of warm bodies in your bed when and wherever you can get them?”

“Certain ones.”

“I’m not really following—.”

“Unsurprising,” Lambert sighed, shoving Dandelion towards the exit. “Get schmoozing. I’ve got to collect my swords, but I’ll keep an eye out. I’ll have her head before she sucks you dry.”

With his penchant for attracting trouble, it was no surprise that Dandelion managed to lure the succubus within a few hours. She led him outside—to the hedge maze of all places—and pressed him into the side of a fountain while she worked to open the ties of his hose. He already felt lightheaded and drunk, without having touched a single drop of alcohol. Her glamour fell just as she pulled his cock free, but the fear wasn’t enough to stir him into action, he was transfixed. Stuck in place by an invisible force.

In the next moment, her head was rolling on the floor, and Dandelion shrieked as he was covered in a fountain of blood. His heart fluttered in panic, adrenalin surging through his body in a tidal wave, and he felt tears well in the backs of his eyes. 

“Calm down,” said a firm voice, and then even firmer arms wrapped around Dandelion’s body, drawing him into a glorious warmth that soothed him immediately. It was familiar, and the hold was reassuringly strong. “Deep breaths. Follow mine.” When he was calm, gentle fingers restored his dignity—tucked his cock away, righted his clothing and wiped the blood from his face at least—and led him to a quiet corner of the party.

The surrounding guests whispered behind their palms as Lambert crouched in front of Dandelion, the severed head of the succubus between his booted feet. “Still with me, bard?”

“Y—yes, I think so,” Dandelion stammered around a mouthful of wine, and Lambert guided it away. “Did it work—? Is that—?”

“Yeah. I’ll go collect the coin.”

“Oh, excellent, well—why’re you still here?”

“Succubus’ thrall is a horrible thing. That was brave.”

“A compliment?”

“From who?

“You. You just called me brave!”

“You misheard.”

Dandelion scowled and shoved Lambert lightly in the chest. “I’m surprised she didn’t go for you. That damned doublet will be the death of me if you ever wear it again.”

“Wasn’t a handsome enough lure.”

“Not handsome en—? Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

“Hooked nose, receding hairline, facial scars. Not a prime cut.” 

Dandelion let out a long breath, fingers twitching as they ached to touch Lambert’s face. “You didn’t ask because I’m easy, did you?”

“A succubus can lure anyone she chooses, doesn’t matter whether they’re easy or not.”

“You think I’m handsome.” Dandelion’s eyes glittered.

Lambert pulled a face. “Wouldn’t go that far. Easy on the eye, maybe.”

“I’ll take it. Two compliments in one night.”

“Hm,” Lambert stood, plucking the succubus head from the floor. It was a macabre thing, completely human but for the horns on its head. “Got a room here?”

“Yes,” Dandelion sighed. “Servant’s quarters.”

“Right.”

And then he walked off. Dandelion was left blinking in his wake, still spattered in blood and feeling rather winded.

That evening a handsome man climbed over Dandelion’s proverbial balcony. (He squeezed in through the shuttered windows on the first floor). Belts and swords clattered to the floor, followed closely by the rustle of clothes, and a warm, naked body slipped beneath the blankets. It was a surprise when those strong thighs bracketed his hips and Lambert sank onto Dandelion, his moan crumbling to a soft whimper as his body opened up. 

The sounds of passion Lambert made like this were different; soft, breathy, almost vulnerable. Dandelion watched him in the pale silvery light illuminating the room through the solitary window; his muscular body arched, his head tilted back as his hips ground in slow rolls. It was beautiful. _Lambert_ was beautiful. Dandelion touched him, played with his intimate areas, his chest, until their pleasure crested.

Lambert allowed himself to be held and Dandelion was grateful. He nosed along Lambert’s hairline and breathed him in, trying not to think over how he had climbed the garden walls, snuck past patrolling guards and slithered through the window just to reach Dandelion.

“Stay,” Dandelion murmured sleepily, taking Lambert’s elbow as he climbed out of bed to retrieve his shirt. The Witcher stilled and looked back over his shoulder. Dandelion stuttered through his reassurances. “I can slip you out in the morning. Just say I was fretful over the succubus, or I can distract the guards—.”

“I’ll stay,” Lambert said in a voice that tried to sound annoyed, but there was something else underneath, and he spooned up to Dandelion’s side with a quiet grumble. Long limbs stretched and then their legs coiled together, with Lambert’s head resting in the centre of his chest. Dandelion was certain he could hear the Witcher snuffling at his chest hair, nosing at the bites he had left in the wake of his passion.

Dandelion gazed at the ceiling and contemplated the words _‘not all Witchers’_ until the early hours of the morning.

* * *

The war went on. Ciri grew. Dandelion travelled with Geralt. Geralt yearned after Yennefer. The world was turning as intended.

Dandelion continued to not age.

The witch noticed it. Of course, she did. She interrogated him practically at the end of a dagger to Geralt’s wry amusement. “A deal with a hedgewitch? You foolish bard. The only way to break this damned curse is to meet its requirements.”

“I have yet to regret it.”

“What did you give up?”

Dandelion refused to tell her. She read his mind and was predictably furious with him. He didn’t quite understand the true source of her fury, but he made himself scarce for a few weeks while Geralt stayed with her in Vengerburg. 

It always seemed to happen when he was feeling at his loneliest. Like destiny rolled her eyes and shuffled the pieces with a gentle nudge, placing them in position to give him a little boost. Lambert was sitting in the very first tavern he entered. 

“You’re sitting oddly,” Dandelion squinted at him.

“And you always stand with that quirk to your hip, but have I ever said anything?” Lambert shifted self-consciously, narrow eyes flickering self-consciously around the room. 

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m not.”

“Now you’re a liar.”

“That makes two of us then.”

“What?” Dandelion blustered and several people looked around.

“I know what the locket is.”

Dandelion’s back straightened, and he frowned. “Let me tend to your wound.”

“No.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I can’t trust you.”

“Have I ever don—?” Dandelion stopped again, ground his lower lip between his teeth in frustration. Would this be the third person he ever told in his life? To be fair, the second one had held him at knifepoint. “If you let me tend to your wound,” he said carefully, “I will explain.” 

Lambert was holding himself ransom. Whether he’d intended to sit and bleed to death or not, Dandelion didn’t know, but now he was using his body as a bargaining chip and it was a _cheap_ shot. The witcher hummed, and then stood slowly from his seat. “Very well. My room’s upstairs.”

“You have a room. Why by the seven hells were you sitting down here?”

“I wanted a drink.”

“Of course you did.”

Once they were safely tucked away in Lambert’s room, Dandelion helped the Witcher undress and gather his needed supplies. Some dwarven spirit and white gull to clean the wound, a needle and thread, and a dose of Swallow to hasten the healing process. Lambert sat there, with the needle between finger and thumb, waiting.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Dandelion sighed. “Fine,” a pause, another snort through the nose, “the locket contains a curse of sorts.”

“I know that bit.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me what information you’ve _ferreted_ out and I can fill in the blanks?”

“No.” Lambert was just being petulant now and he _knew_ it. The first few stitches were in, so Dandelion continued. The wound really wasn’t that big. A long line in Lambert’s ribs from a small claw, but it was bleeding rather profusely.

“I bargained my fertility for eternal youth.”

“Bargained?”

“Yes.”

“Idiot.”

“Um,” Dandelion blustered, “it’s worked out rather well so far.”

“Never deal with dangerous women,” Lambert hissed as the needle pressed into his flesh. “They always make their deals with their fingers crossed behind their back.”

“And how do you know it was a woman?” the troubadour asked, feeling self-righteous and ready to whip out the misogyny card. It was one he very rarely got to use.

“Research.” 

“Oh. So you know that bit too.”

“Yes.”

“You… you want to know how to break it. Don’t you?”

“I know it’s something someone else has to do,” Lambert finished the final few stitches and bit off the thread before returning to tidy it up. “So tell me, and we can get it done.”

“Oh, no, no.”

“Don’t be an asshole. You know why they call it a curse, right? Because it’s a _bad thing_.”

“Immortality? Eternal youth? Haven’t found the downside.”

“Right. And when Geralt’s gone? What do you do then? Is your family even still alive?”

“Some of them.” Dandelion murmured. The Geralt question hadn’t occurred to him, because in his mind Geralt was an eternal fixture. But he wasn’t. He aged just like everyone else—slowly, yes—but he would still… not be here one day. What _would_ Dandelion do? He had friends, of course. Some he could count as relatively genuine. The dwarf Zoltan, Priscilla. But he only had one Geralt. 

“Does Geralt know?”

“Yes.”

“That fucking—,” Lambert rubbed his eyes, his beard, and knocked back a mouthful of Swallow. “Tell me, bard. Now. Or you’re sleeping outside.”

“Love,” Dandelion blustered—almost shouted, in fact, “love, Lambert. I need to find someone who loves me for _me._ Absolute… _rubbish._ Basically an unbreakable curse.” 

“Yeah, you’re irritating.”

“Quite.”

“Shallow.”

“Yes…”

“Really bad taste in clothes.”

“Hang on now—.”

“Worse taste in bed partners.”

“I think you’ll fi—.”

“Really poor impulse control.”

“Lambert!” Dandelion growled, and the witcher looked up at him with… an odd look. Rather than deal with it though, with the odd crease to those wonderfully roguish features, Dandelion sighed. “For the reasons you have so kindly outlined, an impossible task.”

“Can you be killed?”

Dandelion blinked. He… hadn’t asked. “I… don’t know. I bleed. I’ve felt weak enough after a while without food and water. I was affected by that succubus, I—but I don’t know.”

Lambert stared into space, his brow creased, plush—oh so plush—lips turned down in a deep, thoughtful frown. “You’re Jaskier."

“Yes,” Dandelion—ah, Jaskier said, tentatively. “I’ve had to die once. Figuratively. I—suppose I will have to die again soon.”

“You’ve travelled with Geralt for twenty years. People will notice soon.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s shoulders sagged. He hadn’t thought about it for some time. Where he’d go—who he’d be. It was fairly widely known that he couldn’t have children. In fact, he had flaunted it as encouragement on more than one occasion. Rather crass, yes, but who cared? It achieved an aim.

“If you ever want it to end,” Lambert said quietly. “I’d do it for you.”

“Do what?”

“Kill you.”

“Oh…”

“I’d make it quick. Painless,” Lambert added as if it softened the edges of the offer. “Can’t imagine living in this world forever. Not sure what kind of person I would become.” 

Dandelion sat on the edge of the bed slowly. The thought of leaving all his friends behind—no Geralt, no Zoltan, no… no _Lambert._ Why did that hurt so much? What was Jaskier or Dandelion or whoever he was without them? A hollow thing. What would he become to fill the void?

They listened to the noise downstairs as they both stared into space. Jaskier gathered himself; he found the smile and forced it onto his face. “Why did the locket catch your attention?”

Lambert gazed at him and Dande—Jaskier knew he was looking right through the mask. “You only wear gold. Gemstones of sapphire, topaz and emerald depending on the colour of your jerkin or doublet,” the Witcher replied, “silver’s too gauche.”

Jaskier—for he could be Jaskier in front of Lambert now—laughed.

They drank and ate together, and Jaskier rested his head on Lambert’s chest as he slept. When they parted ways in the morning, Lambert tugged Jaskier’s locket from his doublet and opened the catch to gaze upon the image. The troubadour let him, studying his face the whole time, and found it a mix of difficult emotion. He was reminded of Geralt’s words many years ago; Lambert was all heart. A scarred one.

Jaskier worried for a fleeting moment that he would one day be responsible for one more scar. _Selfish and narcissistic._ He would have had to have been there in the first place to do any damage. Just because Lambert had taken up permanent residence in Jaskier’s heart didn’t mean the feelings were returned. Jaskier had learned this many decades ago.

* * *

_Dandelion_ met up with Geralt. They travelled the Continent and righted its wrongs. He visited Kaer Morhen for two more winters, most of which he spent at Lambert’s side—in the stillroom, cutting herbs, reading by the fire and exchanging insults in a multitude of different languages—and he didn’t regret a single second.

Then one year, he stayed in Oxenfurt. They needed an extra hand in the performing arts department and, while his heart yearned for one specific Witcher in particular, he knew he had to start thinking about ending Dandelion’s life to start a new one as… well, he wasn’t sure.

Lambert was right, of course. People had started to look again. Whispers of _‘just like Jaskier, how very peculiar’_ floated around the faculty. His time was almost up. He could use the winter to start laying the groundwork. At some point, he would have to tell Geralt, of course, but he could think about that in the future. 

Winter settled in over Oxenfurt as a thick blanket of snow and _Dandelion_ taught thinly attended lectures and tried not to yearn too deeply. He was surprised to realise it wasn’t Geralt he missed—his lifelong friend, his confidant—but a sour-tempered Witcher with scruffy black hair and a horrific sense of humour. 

Perhaps he could move to Zerrikania? The sun would play havoc on his skin.

It was stupid—not like he had been looking forward to it all year—not like he hadn’t been a coward because seeing Lambert meant thinking about… _not having him anymore._

Gemmeria looked promising. A nice coastal province like his home of Kerack.

No more chance meetings in taverns. Passionate, frantic sex on hard mattresses while out on the Path, and slower, more… _something_ sex under the furs at Kaer Morhen. No more goofy antics with a felt hat or oddly smelling herbs, no more wit and sharp-edged humour, no more private smiles.

There was always The Continent Across the Sea. He could even use his current name. Dandelion, or his old name. No need to think up a new one. The mystery of the unknown.

No more long nights spent wrapped in blankets, pointing out stars in the clear night sky and giving them lewd names. 

Dandelion pushed it down deep. He continued to pave the way for his new life. It didn’t occur to him that there was a possibility of _breaking_ the curse, because who would ever love him for the man beneath his many masks?

One evening he happened to open his locket over a glass of brandy and what he found made his heart skip a beat in his chest. The red petals of the begonia that had been frozen for decades were now a luscious, velvet red. He closed and reopened it several times to check, but the petals remained fresh and alive.

 _The curse had broken._ His first thought was not for wrinkles, or grey hairs, or any of the other many things he’d worried about all those decades before, but a mad scramble for the face of the person who could _possibly_ love him enough for the magic to consider it as ‘true’. 

He abandoned his planning in favour of a new mission. The weeks that followed were spent pouring through his journals, traipsing the streets of Oxenfurt for likely faces—a fool’s errand really, his love could be at the other end of the Continent for all he knew. 

It didn’t take long for his search to turn to despair. A thousand faces. A thousand experiences, and yet the man that kept springing to mind was an impossibility. What cruel twist of fate would it be for him to be unable to love this person back? To constantly yearn for another?

The winter thawed. Spring arrived in the form of tentative green shoots poking through the ice in the university gardens, and a pink-cheeked porter that arrived outside his quarters panting. “Sir, come quickly.”

“What? Why?” Dandelion glowered. “I’m currently busy composing—.”

“Sir, he said if we don’t let him in, he’ll set the entire building on fire,” the boy pleaded, “and he has two frightful swords on his back. We know you travel with a Witcher—m-maybe you can calm him down.”

Dandelion grabbed his cloak and left his quarters at a trot. When he appeared in the university foyer, it was cluttered with gowned students peering over each other’s shoulders to get a better view of the chaos. A semi-circle of professors surrounded a very irate Witcher—oh no, worse, a very irate _Lambert._

“Devil take it,” Lambert sneered, “if you don’t move, I’ll put fact to all your fairy tales about Witchers.” 

“Excuse me, move out of the way, thank you, coming through—ah-ha!”

Dandelion placed both hands on Lambert’s chest as the Witcher surged up to him. “You asshole,” Lambert seethed, his teeth clenched. “I thought you’d gone.”

“Gone?” Dandelion tried for an easy-going smile, but he could feel _too many_ pairs of eyes on them as they talked. He was the first to love a little bit of drama—often being the centre of it—but attention was the last thing he needed with suspicions raised. “Come back to my rooms. We can talk.”

“Which way?”

“Just out the door to the—oh, yes, okay. Why don’t you let me lead?”

Lambert shouldered his way through the students and the gathered crowd watched the two of them leaves with gawking eyes. Once the world was safely shut out, Dandelion let out a breath. It was a little premature because Lambert rounded on him.

“Why didn’t you come to Kaer Morhen for winter?”

“I had responsibilities here—.”

“Geralt said.”

“So…”

“Not good enough.”

“Excuse me?” Dandelion blinked.

“I was _waiting_.” Lambert spat the last word like it disgusted him. Like he had revealed some grievous crime he had committed.

“You were…” Dand—Jaskier trailed off as he started to put the pieces together. Lambert had been waiting for him. Watching the trail as he did until his brothers arrived. He had watched the horizon not just for Geralt, but for Jaskier too. And _Jaskier_ had never arrived. He touched his locket and the knot in his throat tightened.

“I thought you were doing it. Disappearing. Without—,” Lambert clenched his teeth, brow creasing, and turned his back.

“—without saying goodbye.” 

A grunt of affirmation. 

“I could never.”

“Liar.”

“No,” Jaskier reached out with a tentative hand and threaded his fingers through a leather-clad palm, “no lies. I’m sorry—I didn’t think.”

“You never do,” Lambert rounded on him again and shoved him in the chest. Compared to a Witcher’s full strength it was a gentle poke, but Jaskier still stumbled back. “You’re selfish. And shallow,” another little shove, “and you do things— _say_ things without thinking about the consequences. And you take things that don’t belong to you.”

“Now see here,” Jaskier drew up, chest thrust out, “I’m no thief!”

“You’re the worst kind of thief. The kind that flirts his way through the front door, secures what he wants right under the owner’s nose and then disappears into the night without a trace.” 

Jaskier had never seen Lambert so angry. No—wait. That _was_ a lie. There was just one other time. When he believed Triss Merigold would take Ciri away. When he believed something he genuinely adored— _loved_ —would be snatched from him forever, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Never for a moment had Jaskier believed that the quiet, hopeful feelings in his chest might be returned. Had Lambert not sneered at Geralt’s sentimentality? Had he not denied his capability to love? Dismissed it outright with scorn? Had he—?

“Hm,” Jaskier smiled gently, “the duality of witchers.”

“What?”

“They claim to be emotionless, that love isn’t in their nature—to be other, to separate themselves, remain neutral—but I’ve never known a group of people to love so ardently.”

“Fuck off, bard.”

“I would, but you’re in my room.”

Lambert snorted. “I won’t say it.”

“I know. You don’t have to.”

“Not going to bring you flowers, or write you poetry.”

“I would be most alarmed if you did.”

Lambert squinted suspiciously. “You like loud declarations.”

“I think you covered that with your entrance, but,” Jaskier took Lambert’s hand and placed the open locket in his palm, “this also helped a little.”

Lambert looked, sucking in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“You didn’t ask for this,” Lambert said, bitterly. “I accused you of petty thievery and yet I’ve stolen your most prized possession.”

It was all the confirmation Jaskier needed. Lambert might as well have screamed it from the rooftops.

“I thought it was,” Jaskier conceded, closing his fingers around Lambert’s palm. “But if the choice is between youth and loneliness, or a few grey hairs and you, then you win out every time.”

Lambert placed a hand over Jaskier’s mouth as he leaned in for the dramatic kiss, and Jaskier whined in alarm. The Witcher growled his warning. “If this appears in _any_ song, I will throw you off the highest mountain in Morhen Valley. I swear to the gods, bard. I have a reputation.”

“Fair,” said Jaskier, or rather, he tried, but it came out as a muffled grunt.

When that palm finally slipped away, Jaskier melted into Lambert’s arm with a quiet squeak of delight. It was the most _thorough_ kiss he’d ever received. In fact, Lambert barely came up for air at all that night.

Their love wasn’t a tragic nor a fairytale romance. It was as imperfect as the two men that shared it. But it was the first time Jaskier had been loved by someone without caveats, without part of himself being left outside while his partner enjoyed the bits they liked or just the mask he wore for them. 

Lambert was a brute. Foul-mouthed and prickly. Not a single romantic bone in his body. But he was loyal and honest. Loving and protective. Forty years later, they stood on the coast in Cidaris and Jaskier finally threw the locket into the ocean. His hair was streaked with silver, his face lined by laughter and smiles, but he stood in the arms of the man that caused most of them and didn’t care.

“So,” the witcher said, with a roguish smirk, “drink and a fuck?”

“Sounds like the perfect evening.”

Lambert nuzzled into Jaskier’s hair with a contented growl.


End file.
